Love At First Sight
by yxl
Summary: Use your imagination on this one


Love At First Sight

The first time she saw him, there had been no love at first sight. The conviction that she would be the only one allowed in his life from then on, the strong need to possess, to own, to _have_—no, such unholy feelings could never qualify as love. And as for what came after, the sorrow, the heartbreak, the rage, the pain and violence and, most of all, the madness—no, that didn't really qualify as love either. So maybe she had never loved him at all. And yet, without love, how could there have been heartbreak?

But none of that mattered, not now that she finally had him. The corners of her thin, gorgeous lips quirked upwards in a devious and joy-filled smile as she realized she would be seeing him today, as she had everyday for the past month. The warm afternoon sun beat down upon the back of her neck as she strolled along the empty path, the path that none but she had walked for the past month. Had there been any bystanders, they would have seen the slim figure of a girl who is not yet in her twenties, cloaked in black, her hands not swinging free in the air but trapped in her pockets as she took step after step in the same direction. They would, perhaps, have noted the curious way she ground the heels of her black boots into the ground with every step she took, so that if the dirt she walked on had been alive, every bit would have died immediately. Their eyes might have been caught by the way her hair, long and almost as dark as the clothes she wore, swung to and fro across her back. At this point, however, they would have almost certainly lost interest. After all, what interest does the world have for a girl walking in the street? There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of; what harm could come from a young girl such as this one? All onlookers would now be turning their heads to other matters as thoughts of what they had just seen float away and are forgotten.

And the girl—she never notices anything anymore, not since one month ago. Lost in her mind, her eyes see nothing, not the fiery colors of the summer sun bright in the sky, or the way the fierce wind ruffles the grass that grows by the path. She has no sight for anything but the distant house that rests at the end of this road, and no thought for anyone but him—the one she is now on her way to see, the one she is always pulled to inexorably by what seems to be more a need than a want to be near him. In her mind's eye, she sees the day she first set eyes on him…

That Sunday morning, she had been sitting at a bar, in a pub empty of people save for her and the surly man behind the counter serving her. It was how she spent her Sunday mornings. A much better use of time, really, than going to church, which was what everyone else would be doing. The girl simply didn't go to church, hadn't since she was a young child of ten years old. Her mother had been a single parent who didn't care that the girl hated church more than anything else, with its endless sitting and listening, and had insisted on going weekly. But that didn't matter, now that her mother was soundly dead in the cemetery. Nobody would ever force the girl to go to church again. She smiled to herself and spun around once on the barstool. Yes, nobody would force her to go to church again. She had taken care of _that_ inconvenience well enough. As she downed her fifth drink she saw, over the rim of her glass, a man enter the pub. He was in his mid-twenties perhaps, tall, clothed in black, with unruly hair that flopped into his eyes. The girl blinked. This was a change in the pattern. Nobody came into this pub on Sunday mornings. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him even as she waved him over to the empty seat beside her.

And the sun is setting now, the sky shot through with streaks of purple and orange and pink. The wind no longer ruffles the grass prettily, but brushes through the girl's hair as she continues walking, unaware of the palette of colors around her. Her pace does not quicken, for she seems to have no regard for time. She strolls along, a blissful smile upon her face that was not inspired by the beauty of her surroundings. She is too lost in her own mind, too tangled in the intricate maze of her thoughts, to face the reality around her.

She remembers the mechanical way her eyes would always seek him out in any room, whether or not he saw her. As he had adjusted to his new life in the town, it had not been unreasonable for her to offer to help him with anything he needed. And soon she knew where he lived, and worked, and his daily schedule became hers. She could recall both his license plate number and all the details of his face with ease. Wherever he went, she followed, a constant presence by his side. God forbid that he should forget her for even the smallest second. And she knew he was vital to her, for she could not go a moment without seeing him. During the day was the best time, she'd decided, because she had the real thing—she could see him, touch his sleeve lightly, speak with him. During the night, all she had were her thoughts and dreams, although at least her wishes could come true in her fantasies. He would open his eyes a little wider one day, she knew, and then he would see her, _really_ see her, and then she would be ready to hear his voice as he told her he couldn't live without her. She waited, and each day she would wake up wondering if today would be the day he decided to admit his desire for her. And when he ran up to her one morning and threw his arms around her, she believed the day had come. As he picked her up and spun her in the air, she knew that today was the day she would stop having to wait. It was about time, too; she had certainly waited for him long enough. So when he finally set her down on her feet and opened his mouth, she knew the words she would hear next: his declaration of love, his vow to never leave her side ever again. He spoke. A minute passed. The girl cocked her head to the side expectantly, waiting. Because she must have imagined the words that had just left his mouth. She must have heard wrong. Because there is no way he could have possibly just asked her to help him get ready for his date tonight, his date with _someone else. _Someone who _wasn't her_. She stared at him. He assumes she hadn't heard him, and repeats those vile words. And that was when she knew. She had been betrayed. He had lied to her. Rage ignited in her mind, almost as quickly as sorrow erupted in her heart. How could he? After all the time she had spent waiting for him, following him, being with him. Wasn't it _her_ he had first met in this town, that Sunday morning in the pub? Wasn't it _her_ who had waved him over, introduced him to the town, done everything she could for him and more since they had met? So what right had some woman to come and ruin absolutely everything? How dare that whore venture towards holding a place in his life at all, much less the one place in his heart that the girl desired most of all? The girl did her best to keep these thoughts to herself and she grinned at him, showing all her teeth, and assured him that she would be absolutely delighted to assist him as she always has. And the man, if he thought he saw a cloud pass over her face, instantly chided his imagination for thinking she could be anything less than thrilled for him. She hugged him once more, inhaling his cologne, and buried her head in his shirt. She let go and asked him what he needed. It has become a habit now for her to do everything he asks of her. _He_ has become the habit that she can't break. That afternoon they parted company early, because he had a date to catch. She watched him drive away from her house, down the long path. She stared out her window. She could still see his house, as it is the first one at the other end of the path. She waited, and watched, and then waited some more until she sees him drive back home five hours later. She watched him help a woman out of the car. She watched them enter his house. She watched and watched and she finally cried.

And the sky is dark now. The wind whips through her hair as the girl walks at a slow and steady pace. Her shoulders are not hunched against the bitter cold, and her arms are not wrapped around herself for warmth. Her hands are still in her pockets, and her smile melts down into a dark scowl as her mind turns against her and image after image flashes through her thoughts. Everything she would rather forget, and more.

She sees herself helping him with the second date, and the one after that, and the next, and the next. After the third date, she stopped waiting and watching at her window. She decided to accompany him and see the woman for herself. Not that he knew about that of course. She was always just a few steps too far away for him to take any notice of her. And the woman, stupid twit that she was, of course she never noticed the girl either. So now some of her nights were devoted to stalking him and that obnoxious woman. The rest were spent crying herself to sleep. But it was always worse during the day, when he would never stop talking about her, and the girl could do nothing but smile and smile, because she would still do everything she could to help him. And all the time, she felt something building, some terrible feeling growing. The sense that something had to happen soon grew larger each day, and the girl wondered if she was the only one who felt it. She caught him glancing at her sometimes, a tiny crease between his eyebrows as he tried to figure her out. And she would stare at him, silently daring him to read her thoughts. And sometimes she wished he would, because maybe the pain he would see inside her would make him change his ways. But she also knew that the amount of hate and anger she now held in her heart would scare any sane person away. So she pressed her lips thinner and thinner together, and hid her thoughts from him.

And now she has arrived at her house. It is no longer a dark shape at the end of the path, not now that she is there too. She enters, and except for the lack of wind inside, there is no difference between being indoors and outdoors—the darkness and cold are still the same, and she is still alone. She flips on the lights and walks into the kitchen. Her eyes rest on the long, sharp knife on the counter. Made with a short wooden handle, the metal of the knife would be gleaming had it been clean—had it not been encrusted with dried blood. She picks it up. Her reflection can still be seen on the bits of metal that aren't stained. But her reflection isn't what she sees. The images blur in front of her eyes. Maybe it's the tears. But hadn't she forgotten how to cry on that day a month ago? And now she no longer sees what's in front of her. Her brief brush with reality fades. Her mind jerks her back into that one day, a month ago.

She is waiting for him outside his house, and she wonders why he is late. Because he never changed his schedule. She was the one who had to alter her life to match his. He was just too strict on that aspect of his life. But she saw his car pull up onto the driveway half an hour late, and she saw him get out and help _her_ out of the car right after. The girl's fists clenched as she watched the two of them. He would make her wait and bend her to his every whim wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. She always had to mold her day into his schedule just to see him. But he, he just went and rearranged his entire day for that woman, that woman who had absolutely _no right_ to even be in his life. She watched as he walked over to the trunk and took out balloons, and chocolates, and a rose. Oh. She had forgotten. Today was their anniversary. The anniversary of him and that woman. The girl's lips curled upwards in a sneer. She watched as the woman shrieked with joy and surprise. He set everything aside and wrapped her in a hug. Then he lifted her up in the air and spun her around, again and again. The girl blinked. She shook her head, and hoped the sight before her would disappear. Because if what she had just seen was real, then that would simply be too painful for her to endure. Hadn't he done just that to her on the day he told her about the woman? That had been the last time he had held her, the last true moment she had shared with him before that woman had taken up all his time. It was the last untainted moment she had shared with him, and now, that was gone. Erased. Destroyed. How could he do the exact same thing with that woman? How could he do this to her? The girl let out a sob and he turned around. His eyes widen and he mouthed a word at her: sorry. Sorry? So had he known how she felt all along? The girl turned and walked away. She noted that he doesn't bother to follow her. At that moment, she didn't know what it was that broke inside of her. Was it her heart or her sanity? Perhaps both. She walked back into her house, refusing to look out of her window. In her kitchen, there is a long, sharp knife. The gleam of the metal can be seen from across the room. She picked it up, and made her decision. The next time she saw the man and the woman, she approached them with a smile on her face. She talked to them: she is sorry for any trouble she may have caused, and maybe they could have lunch at her house today to talk things over. He was so happy, and he smiled so widely as he hugged her. She held on to him, and breathed in his cologne for the last time. Then she pushed him away and led the way to her house.

She set the table, she brought the food. She placed a kettle on the stove. As they all sat down at the table, she fingered the knife in her pocket, and waited for the perfect moment. And in the meantime, she was the very epitome of friendliness, as she smiled and laughed and joked like it cost her nothing. All those days of pretending with him had taught her how to do that. Perhaps she should think him for it later, before the end. She watches the slut simper at him, and fights down the bile that rises in her throat. She can barely contain her fury. Her chance comes as the kettle whistles. Smiling at him, she asked him would he please go take it off the stove. Eager to gain her forgiveness, he left the room immediately, and one moment was all she needed. Rising from the table, the girl walked behind the chair of that hideous woman; she let out a hiss of maniacal laughter at the feel of a knife when it slits a throat. Oh, if only she could feel that again and again! Pushing the woman out of her chair, the girl felt a savage satisfaction in her heart as she viewed the blood pooling on the floor. What a pretty sight. Perhaps she should leave the blood there, it was so aesthetically pleasing. Stepping on the dead woman's hand, she waited for his return. He came back into the room and checked at the sight of an empty chair where the woman had been. She held the knife behind her back as she told him the woman fainted. Walking over to him, she smiled angelically into his face. Putting a hand at the back of his neck, she pulled him down for a kiss. She held him tightly, and when she was done, she pushed him away hard. She looked him in the eye, told him two words: goodbye, dearest. And one more life ends in that room within the span of a minute. His throat isn't slit, no, God forbid he have anything in common with that woman, even in the way he dies. Instead, she stabs him in the heart. She laughs at the irony. All this time he has been twisting her heart, wrenching it, sucking it dry of all her blood. Now the favor is returned. She tries to make it painless for him; she doesn't take any pleasure in killing him. The same couldn't be said for the woman. After the girl was done with the man, she took the woman by the hair and dragged her into the kitchen. She turned out the lights.

That night, the girl had dragged a garbage bag into the cemetery. The woman's body was heavy, even after being hacked into pieces. The night was pitch black, and the wind howled fiercely. The girl paid no heed to this. She had shed no tears over the dead body of the man. Regardless of what he had done to her, the moment she stabbed his heart, she ripped hers out too. Fighting the cold was nothing compared to that. And in any case, she had the strength of her hate to aid her. Dragging the body pieces through the cemetery, she stopped at a certain tree. She dumped the bag there and walked away. Never mind burying it. They could find the blood and death tomorrow morning, just as they had found her mother so many years ago. The girl giggled to herself. Perhaps this bag would be buried alongside her mother. Serves them both right.

And now she is climbing the stairs to her bedroom, the same room she had stood in for so many days as she watched and waited at the window. Going over to the bed, she kneels by the man's side. She doesn't need to turn on the lights, for she can find her way to him in the dark. It's the same way she remembered his license plate number and his face all those days ago. This was no different. And now she tells him about her day, and her thoughts, and her dreams. She can now admit that her dreams feature him nightly, and she smiles to herself and takes his hand when he makes no protest. Killing the woman was the right thing to do, she thinks. Now he has so much more time for her. And he doesn't object when she holds him and kisses him on the cheek. Leaning across the bed, she wraps her arms around him and holds him tightly. Tonight she will sleep next to him on the bed, just as she has every night since that day a month ago when she killed the woman, and got rid of that distraction. He is hers every night now. And tomorrow, she will walk to the pub where she first saw him, as she does every day now, not just on Sunday mornings anymore. There will be nobody there to serve her this time. The man behind the bar would rather abandon the pub than serve her. And nobody will come in. Nobody wants the association. Word spreads fast, and now there is no chance that the pattern will be broken again—no handsome stranger will ever interrupt her drinking and enter her life again. Tomorrow, the girl will drink alone, and when the morning is over, she will wander around town. She is not labeled a murderess by anyone, no—nobody in town dares to do that. But there is something in her gaze, her posture, something in the coldness of the air around her, and it drives everyone away relentlessly. And come afternoon, she will walk to his house and wait for him as she did every day after she met him. And when he does not show, she will walk that long and lonely path by herself, to her house. And there he waits for her, lying on her bed. And every night, she will whisper to him in the dark. Every day and every night, the same as always. Wriggling under the sheets, she rests her head on his chest, on the very same spot blood had poured from exactly one month ago. Sighing with contentment at being so close to him, all her thoughts finally stop as she closes her eyes.


End file.
